


Tumblin’ Down (Into the Sea)

by Electric_Apple



Category: Hawaii Five-0 (2010)
Genre: F/M, Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-06-04
Updated: 2011-06-04
Packaged: 2017-10-20 02:57:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,602
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/208032
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Electric_Apple/pseuds/Electric_Apple
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sarah Adrienne McGarrett bursts into the world at 11:17 am on the twenty-first of May.  Her father’s daughter through-and-through, she sees no real benefit in giving anyone advance notice of her movements and barely forty minutes  pass between Catherine’s first twinge of labour and the moment the doctor deposits the squirming, irate baby on her stomach.  She – the baby –  has a scattering of dark curly hair on her head, her mother’s nose and her father’s long fingers.  She also has, as every person in the delivery room can attest to, a set of fully matured, functioning lungs.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Tumblin’ Down (Into the Sea)

Sarah Adrienne McGarrett bursts into the world at 11:17 am on the twenty-first of May.  Her father’s daughter through-and-through, she sees no real benefit in giving anyone advance notice of her movements and barely forty minutes  pass between Catherine’s first twinge of labour and the moment the doctor deposits the squirming, irate baby on her stomach.  She – the baby –  has a scattering of dark curly hair on her head, her mother’s nose and her father’s long fingers.  She also has, as every person in the delivery room can attest to, a set of fully matured, functioning lungs.

Once they’ve cleaned up Catherine and the baby and got them settled in the room, the former changing into a new hospital gown, the latter tightly wrapped in a cotton blanket with a pink hat on her head, Steve takes a couple of photos and shoots them off to Danny, who replies moments later with a typically misspelled text. “She’s beautifl.  Must take after Cathereine.  Thank the Lord.”  Steve snorts and sends him another photo.

Those first few hours are the strangest of Steve’s life.  He’s known, logically, since Catherine first showed him the blue lines on that small plastic stick – but despite all the planning and painting and the loss of his spare room and the infant seat in the back of his truck, despite Catherine’s ever-increasing belly and pile of baby clothes growing in the dresser, he’s never quite believed it would bring him here, to this moment,  sitting in the recliner beside Catherine’s hospital bed, a baby ( _this baby my baby my daughter oh shit how did_ that _happen_ ) cradled awkwardly in one arm. 

He’s amazed by the volume such a tiny set of lungs can produce.  He’s unspeakably relieved when she settles.  He’s proud of this perfect little girl they’ve produced and he’s in awe of Catherine’s quiet certainty as she feeds her for the first time.  He’s terrified of the new weight of responsibility settling so heavily on his shoulders.  He misses his dad.  He misses his _mom_ , so deeply and so inherently it takes his breath away.   He hates the feeling of uncertainty, of a task and a future he doesn’t understand and has no game plan for.  He loves this red-faced, long-limbed tiny little girl with an immediateness and a fierceness he did not believe possible just two hours ago. 

He wonders why the fuck Danny didn’t tell him it would _be_ like this. 

He changes his first diaper three hours after she’s born, handling the baby more carefully than he’s ever handled live ordnance while Cath laughs and calls out instructions from her vantage point across the room.  He’s relieved – yeah, that word again – when he manages to get the new diaper on without incident; more relieved when he picks her up and the thing stays put.  He transfers the baby to Catherine to finish dressing while he disposes of dirty diaper and myriad of wipes he’s used and he’s washing his hands when he hears Grace’s excited chatter in the hallway.

The knock is entirely perfunctory and entirely for Catherine’s benefit: Steve hasn’t finished calling out “Come in” when Danny enters, arms filled with flowers, Grace following eagerly behind.  “Uncle Steve!  Can I see her now?  Can I see the baby?”

Catherine pats the bed and Grace climbs up beside her while Steve relieves Danny of the flowers.  Grace looks awe-struck as Catherine peels back the blanket enough to let Grace get a good look at the baby.  After a few minutes, Danny moves her gently aside and bends over to pick up the baby, tucking her into his arms with an ease and expertise Steve envies.  “Well hey there, kitten,” he says softly.  “Aren’t you a gorgeous thing.”  He’s smiling as he says it but there’s a shadow behind it, a darkness maybe only Steve can see – a longing for the baby Danny lost, the grief for that little flickering heart which stopped beating almost as soon as it started.

Steve is suddenly, irrationally pleased to be able to give Danny this – this measure of comfort, the weight of Steve’s little girl in his arms.  It’s not enough, but it’s something.

It’s something.

 

*             *             *            

 

Sweetie, pumpkin, kitten.  Baby girl, little girl, darling.  Poppet, baby, honey.   Everyone seems to  use them all interchangeably, the baby is called by everything but her name.  But it’s Grace who gives her the lasting nickname, the one that will stick.  She’s studying acronyms at school.  She calls Danny to tell him that Sarah’s name is also an acronym: Sarah Adrienne McGarrett.  Sam.  And Danny tells Steve, more as a less-than-subtle way of demonstrating just how clever his kid his, but Steve looks at Sarah that night and he thinks, yeah, okay, it sort of suits her and Sammie, well, that’s easier for him to get out than sweetie or honey.

 So he tries out and it feels right, and after a few days she becomes interchangeably Sarah and Sam and Sammie and it works for him, it just _works_ , even if Catherine thinks he’s crazy.  A week, and Danny’s also adopted the nickname.  Another week and even Catherine has slipped into the habit. 

 

*             *             *            

 

By the time Sarah is three weeks old, they’ve developed something of a routine.  Steve still wakes at five and rolls out of bed and into a pair of swimming trunks but instead of heading straight out into the pre-dawn ocean, he takes a waking Sarah from her crib, changes her diaper, and takes her into Catherine, who wakes up just enough to settle the baby in for her first feed.  He leaves them to it, goes for his swim, works his muscles til they burn, a not entirely small part of himself desperate for the momentary escape from diapers and bottles and strollers and this new, softer Catherine. 

But afterwards there’s home, Catherine in the kitchen wrapped in a soft cotton dressing gown, a fresh pot of coffee on the counter and fresh fruit in a bowl next to his cereal.  He kisses her and he looks for the baby and he kisses her too, curls soft beneath his lips.  Most morning he eats breakfast with the baby in his lap; likes the warm weight of her against him, the feel of her hands working as she clutches at the fingers of his left hand while he eats with his right. 

One morning he leans into kiss her and she smiles, an honest-to-God _smile_ , and his heart damn near shatters. 

Danny arrives around seven and usually Steve’s ready but sometimes he’s not because Sarah’s had a bad night or he can’t find any clean clothes buried beneath the endless piles of pink jumpsuits.  Either way, they’re not getting out the door til Danny’s had at least a kiss and preferably a cuddle, the love he has for Steve’s little girl open and honest and sort of humbling, too, in a way Steve can’t describe and doesn’t attempt to. 

They leave for work and Steve’s not distracted by the baby, not really, but he’s _aware_ of her in a way he’s never been aware of anyone in his life.  Catherine texts him throughout the day, sends pictures whenever Sammie looks particularly cute (or particularly irate; he gets more than a few of her scrunched up face as she screams in protest at some real or imagined indignity).  Sometimes he goes out for a few beers after work.  Mostly, he doesn’t.  He slips in an afternoon surf when time allows.  He goes home to his girls, cooks dinner when Catherine’s wrung out from the day, bathes Sarah and puts her to bed. 

Sarah wakes about eleven every night, hungry.  Catherine gets her, brings her into bed with them.  They turn the lights down low so as not to wake her completely and she takes the offered breast with her eyes still closed, one fist curling in the soft cotton of her mother’s nightgown.  Steve watches her, soft with sleep, little mouth working, tiny head an echo of Catherine’s breast.  He places his hand over her back, feels the regular motion as she works for her food.  He feels her breath, soft and even; cups her head with one hand, smooths her rumpled hair.  And okay, yeah, maybe he didn’t want this but in these moments, well, it’s not so bad.  It’s not so bad at all.

 

*             *             *            

 

Catherine has a headache and it’s not so bad when he leaves in the morning but by the time Danny drops him home that evening she’s almost unconscious on the couch, so he calls Danny in to watch the baby while he takes her to the hospital.  He has to carry her out to the car and they’re still twenty minutes out when  her pulse dips, tacky and irregular, her face a sickly grey.  He calls ahead to alert the medical centre and steps on it, breaking a dozen traffic laws in his effort to get her there before – before. 

And they try, he can tell that; they work furiously to bring her blood pressure down but nothing seems to work and when they push him from the room he knows, he knows.  He paces the hallway until the doctor emerges a lifetime later and he hears the words, the small tear unnoticed in the uterus, the blood clots, the series of small strokes and the final catastrophic one, but the only thing he can really make sense of is that Catherine kissed him goodbye this morning and now she’s lying in that room and what is he supposed to do, how is he supposed to take care of the baby without her? 

He reaches for his phone.  “I don’t know what to _do_ ,” he blurts out when Danny answers, and he can hear Sarah crying in the back ground because it’s after midnight and she’s hungry.  Danny tells him to stay where he is, he’s coming, and he tries to tell Danny that no, he should stay and take care of the baby but Danny tells him that he’s got it sorted, so park his ass and _wait_.

He waits. 

When Danny’s footsteps sound in the hallway, he struggles to his feet – he aches to the depth of his bones, though he doesn’t understand why.  “She’s with Kono,” Danny calls as soon as he’s in ear shot and yeah, the baby, he should be worried about the baby but for the moment he’s so damn relieved to see Danny that his knees start to buckle.

Danny catches him, eases him back into the hard plastic chair.  “I don’t know what to _do,_ ” Steve says again, helplessly, and Danny wraps an arm around his shoulder.  “You’re going to do what the normal people do, babe,” he says calmly.  “You’re going to take it one step at a time and you’re going to get through it.”

 

*             *             *

 

Getting through it is a relative thing. 

There is paperwork to be signed.  Steve signs it.  There are phone calls to be made – to Catherine’s parents, her sister, her superiors.  Chin makes them.  There are supplies to be found for the baby.  Danny takes care of it while Steve fills out the paperwork; disappears for a while and returns with his arms full of – well, full of what, Steve’s not sure exactly.

“Bottles,”  Danny explains.  “And formula.  The midwives told me these are the best, it will help make Sammie’s transition from Ca – from the breast to the bottle a little easier.  Kono’s managed to get a bit into her with a bottle and some samples she found in the nursery but she’s going to wake up hungry soon and I thought it would be best to have it on hand, you know?”

“I don’t know how to make a bottle up,” Steve says blankly.

“Luckily you’re talking to the king of baby bottles,” Danny says, and his smile is sad but the arm he drops across Steve’s shoulders is strong and capable.  “C’mon, babe.  You need to go see to your daughter.”

But his daughter, it seems, has no need to see him.  And he understands it, logically, because she’s hungry and she wants comfort and familiarity and the feel of her mother’s skin but understanding it doesn’t make it any easier when she slaps the bottle away with angry, flailing hands and wails inconsolably.  After what feels like an eternity spent trying to get the thing into her damn mouth, he shoves both the baby and the bottle at Danny and thunders upstairs, furious, _because he doesn’t know what to do_. 

Thank God for Danny, makes up another bottle and wrestles with the distraught infant who wants her mother, her mother’s breast, not the cold plastic teat offered to her – who gets her to take it, finally, when the hunger becomes too much, who cradles her tenderly in her arms and soothes her with soft touches and softer words.  Thank God for Danny, who changes the baby and finds her pacifier and brings her upstairs to Steve; settles her (almost asleep) on the bed beside him.  Thank God for Danny, who doesn’t say a word, just kicks off his shoes and stretches out on the bed with them, Sarah warm and sated between them.

Thank God for Danny, who stays right there with him as the hours pass – quiet, comforting, _there_.

 

*             *             *            

 

He wakes early the morning of Catherine’s funeral.  The sun isn’t up and the ocean is a deep, thick black as he pulls on a pair of swimming trunks and heads down to the beach.  He strikes out hard and fast, swims til his breath is burning in his lungs and his muscles are dull and aching with fatigue.  He has no idea how far he’s gone but a quick glance at his watch shows he’s been swimming for nearly an hour; he turns back, pushing himself even harder this time, and staggers back onto the beach behind the house just as dawn’s starting to break. 

It’s only when he reaches for the towel he’d dropped on an empty deck chair and sees the a flash of pink against the grass (Sarah’s sun-hat, lost for six days now) that he remembers and shit, _shit_ – he drops the towel and races inside, takes the stairs two a time.  He stops outside the closed bedroom door, heart pounding so fast it hurts to breathe because shit shit _shit_ , _he forgot about the fucking baby_.

There’s no sound at all coming from behind the door.

So he takes a deep breath and another and he tries to calm himself as he pushes open the bedroom door because no noise, that has to be a good thing, that means she hasn’t woken, didn’t know he was gone –

The baby is a small, motionless lump in the middle of the cot.

He crosses the small space in two strides and he can’t be sure she’s still breathing, not when she’s so damn still.  He snatches her up, hands are trembling so much he almost drops her.  She comes awake with a startled yelp as she makes contact with his still-wet skin and he makes a noise two parts sob.  She starts to cry and he feels sick with guilt and shame because what kind of father is he, that he could _do_ that, that he could _forget_ her so completely? 

He sinks to the floor, the baby cradled tightly against his chest, and Sarah cries and he rocks her and shakes and cries a little too.

 

Danny gets him through the rest of the day.  He shows up at the house around seven and Steve has to physically pull himself up off the nursery floor in order to answer the door.  He shoves a still crying Sarah at him, mumbles something about bottles and formula in the kitchen, then disappears back upstairs for a shower.  When he comes back downstairs twenty minutes later, Danny is sitting on the couch with Sarah in his lap; she’s working frantically at the bottle in her mouth and he should feel guilty about that too, but he doesn’t have the energy.  He walks past them to the kitchen, pours himself a bowl of cereal, eats it – because it’s routine, and he needs the routine as much as the energy boost.

Danny’s talking to the baby, soft nonsense words which don’t make sense to Steve but Sarah seems to like it because she gives him a small, milky smile around the teat of the bottle.  And normally Steve would be jealous – of the smile, of the capable way Danny raises her to his shoulder and elicits a series of sleepy burps, of the slow relaxation of her little body as she eases into sleep – but he’s running on autopilot and he doesn’t say a word as Danny takes her upstairs to put her back to bed.

Most of the rest of day passes in a blur.  He remembers pressing his uniform shirt again – polishing his shoes with the kit in the laundry.  Danny knocks on the bedroom door, asks him if there’s something special he wants Sarah dressed in, an outfit?  He shakes his head, wonders if he was supposed to buy her something new.  He goes to the baby’s bedroom, grabs the first thing he sees from her cupboard and gives it to Danny. 

Then he’s dressed and Danny’s bundling him out the door, Sarah in one arm and a diaper bag in the other.  Danny offers him the baby but he shakes his head so Danny puts her in the car seat himself.  The funeral itself is a blur of uniforms and words and the sweat pools hot and damp in the small of his back.  He’s aware of Danny beside him, of the baby squirming against his partner’s chest as the first _crack_ of the salute echoes around them. 

He doesn’t really remember much at all after that.

 

*             *             *            

 

Three days after Catherine’s funeral, and Sarah is crying.

There’s no tension in her belly and she’s not drawing her legs up as though she has colic even if her tiny hands are clenched into tight little fists that she flails periodically.




As far as he can tell, there’s not a damn thing _wrong_ with her. 

So he walks her around the lounge room and through the kitchen in ever-increasing circles – rubs her back, jiggles her on his shoulder, made soft hushing noises as he walks.  When that doesn’t work, he wraps her up and places her in the cot, figuring she’ll cry herself into exhaustion but her screams seem to double in volume and after fifteen minutes spent pacing the hallway outside her bedroom, he gives up and retrieves her, disproportionately relieved when the noise drops a few decibels.  He resumes the now-familiar route down stairs, and Sarah cries.

She cries, and she cries, and she cries.

He thumbs off the key lock then pauses, just as he has every other time, because who’s going to be happy about taking a call about a screaming kid at 0340?  Danny would know, sure, because Danny has a kid of his own and he’d be surprised if this hadn’t happened at least once in Grace’s infancy, but he can’t do it, can’t make himself admit aloud that he can handle hostage situations and terrorist attacks and deep sea diving and trekking in the jungle with the shirt on his back and little else but he can’t handle nine and a half pounds of infant daughter.




So he puts the phone down again and it’s desperation, really, that leads him outside, Sarah kicking and howling miserably as he slides the door open and steps barefoot out onto the grass.  He walks down to the sand and feels the ocean, thick and black and familiar, swirl around his feet.  And it’s desperation, too, when he moves the baby so he can take off his shirt, laying it down on the sand and then laying her on top of it, removing the tiny pink jumpsuit and the diaper before picking her up again, a naked, irate bundle he holds to his chest as he walks steadily out into the ocean.

The water is warm and he sinks into it gratefully.  The baby gives a surprised grunt when her bare ass hits the water but it _is_ warm enough for her, he might be desperate but he’s not careless, and he keeps moving til the water is at his armpits, when he stops and lets the soft movements of the ocean wash over them both.

Sarah, who is still surprised at her sudden (if gentle) immersion, buries her head in his neck and clutches at him with both hands.  He winces as little baby fingers tug at his chest hair but he doesn’t move because it’s working, finally – her sobs are easing off and her breath is coming a little easier.  She’s cried so hard and for so long that she’s lost her voice but after a few minutes she sighs softly and he can _feel_ her relax, the fight going out of her with each gentle swell and drop.

“You like this, huh?” he murmurs – grateful, pleased, relieved.  “Me too, kiddo.  Should have figured this would be the place for you.”  His heart twists when the baby gives a shuddering sigh and presses her face into his neck, her trust in him so absolute it takes his breath away.

He splays one hand across her back; holds her close ( _this girl this daughter this little piece of my heart_ ) and lets the ocean rock her to sleep.

**Author's Note:**

> My first foray into the fandom - love to know what worked, or what didn't.


End file.
